by M. R. Hall
Now in no danger of being noticed, Jenny paused at the corner of the building to listen. Claydon White drew Sarah Tanner alongside him and addressed the microphones with the relaxed confidence of a man sincere in the belief that only he was capable of seeing or speaking the truth.
‘We have every faith that the coroner will investigate thoroughly and not shirk in her duty to ask the hard questions the army may not wish to answer. The most important of these is how Private Lyons came to fall into enemy hands. Nothing we have so far heard goes any way to explaining that. We will then need to establish whether the military response which was mounted on the last day of a tour, in the dying hours of a failed campaign, was an appropriate or a lawful one.’ He paused briefly and showed the cameras a thoughtful and dignified profile. ‘This inquest is an inquiry into the deaths of two brave young men, but we are also mindful of the fact they are only two among many hundreds who have given their lives in this conflict. We, the public, were powerless to prevent this war, but now the guns are silenced we are determined to hold its perpetrators to account. The law of this country allows our leaders to send young men and women to die, but it does not allow them to do so with impunity. In this courtroom, we will ensure that the warmongers answer for their actions.’
It was quite an oration. Prewritten and extensively rehearsed, no doubt, but it had the desired effect. By the time Jenny had arrived in her chambers, Claydon White’s last sound bite was making its way across social media and the hashtag #Helmand2 was already trending. She glanced through the feed on her phone and watched White’s statement of intent catch light and spread before her eyes. Very soon, his message was being augmented and refined. The last posting she read before switching off her phone said: #Helmand2: Afghan war on trial. She had to admire White: this was precisely the message he wanted the jury who would be sworn in on Thursday morning to receive. His aim was for nine ordinary men and women from north Somerset to feel as if their job was nothing less than to reach a verdict on the justice of a thirteen-year-long war. In one short speech, he had drawn the battle lines and cast himself as the champion of the underdog pitted against the merciless machinery of the state.
Jenny breakfasted on weak coffee and biscuits while she reviewed her file and tried to push aside the nagging sensations of anxiety and self-doubt that had always plagued her before a court appearance. She envied lawyers and judges who were gifted with a sense of their own importance. Ever since the first time she had risen to her feet as a nervous, newly qualified solicitor, she had felt like an imposter. More than twenty years later, the sensation was just as acute and every bit as irrational. There was nothing to worry about in a straightforward preliminary hearing, but still her mind worried over unlikely possibilities and imagined covert plots and conspiracies to subvert her. She fixated on the only likely point of contention: she had emailed Robert Heaton QC late the previous afternoon requesting that Major Norton be made available for this morning’s hearing. She had expected a message in return but had heard nothing. As the minutes passed, his continued silence added to her building sense of unease. At the very least, it told her that Heaton and the anonymous suits from the MOD instructing him had no intention of being cooperative. She anticipated a policy of passive resistance designed to frustrate and drain her. If she was pushed to the point of losing her temper so much the better. It would all be ammunition with which to mount an accusation of bias against her if events didn’t go their way.
Alison knocked on the door with five minutes to go. She brought the news that Major Norton had arrived along with Sergeant Bryant and most of the platoon. Jenny’s worst fears receded: she wouldn’t be forced into a confrontation that might have compelled her to have Norton arrested and brought to court in the back of a police car.
Alison’s next piece of news wasn’t so reassuring: ‘Simon Moreton’s here, too. He doesn’t quite seem his usual self.’
‘He’s used to being well out of the firing line,’ Jenny said. ‘This time it’s all on his shoulders. He appointed me to this one and the Chief’s holding him responsible.’
‘Between you and me, I’ve always thought he was rather in love with you,’ Alison said, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather. ‘But I think you confuse him – he doesn’t understand what it is about you that he’s drawn to.’
Jenny checked the time. Two minutes to go. Not the moment to be discussing Simon Moreton’s misguided romantic feelings.
Alison persisted nonetheless: ‘He’s a bit of a coward, isn’t he? That’s the last thing you are.’
Jenny gave an appreciative smile and thought how far she and Alison had travelled since their first few difficult years, when nothing Jenny did seemed to meet with her officer’s approval.
‘Forget about him,’ Alison said. ‘You’ve got far more important things to worry about. Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, she headed out of the door.
The atmosphere in the crowded courtroom was tense and the air muggy with the perspiration from so many tightly packed bodies. The animosity between the two sets of lawyers was palpable. Heaton and the three lawyers from the MOD seated behind him were stony faced. Claydon White had the steely, defiant look of a gladiator about to do combat. Sitting to his left, Carrie Rhodes maintained the elegant poise of a swan. Behind them sat Sarah Tanner and Kathleen Lyons along with the female police officer charged with ensuring Sarah Tanner’s safety. Jenny spotted Paul Green’s bruised and swollen face in the row behind them. Next to him, Rachel Green was already sobbing into a handkerchief. Tucked away at the back of the room was the familiar face of Simon Moreton, only this morning it had a distinctly grey pallor. Jenny briefly met his eye and sensed his plea to avoid embarrassments.
Jenny assumed her most businesslike tone and announced that she proposed to consolidate the inquests of Private Green and Private Lyons. There were no objections. She moved swiftly on to inquire if all parties had received the bundles of witness statements and post-mortem reports which had been forwarded to them. They had. Next, she turned to what she had anticipated would be a potentially thorny issue: the scope of her inquiry.
‘My duty is to examine the circumstances of and leading up to death. I interpret this as meaning that I have to examine all and any events which may have a direct causal connection with each fatality. Specifically, I propose to inquire into how and why Private Lyons came to be separated from the rest of the platoon. This will not only include the physical circumstances, but I will also inquire into Private Lyons’s psychological state.’ She looked across at the lawyers, ‘Are the interested parties happy with that?’
Robert Heaton rose to his feet. ‘We are content with those parameters, ma’am, but not with any attempt by my friend Mr White to conflate this very specific inquiry into some sort of pseudo-trial of wider events in Afghanistan. I don’t know if you are aware of the comments he has made this morning, ma’am—’
‘I’ve seen them, Mr Heaton,’ Jenny interjected, ‘and I will be asking the jury to disregard them.’ She addressed herself directly to White, ‘For the avoidance of doubt, Mr White, I will treat any attempt to distract the jury from their central task as an abuse of the process of this court. This is an inquiry into the tragic deaths of two soldiers, no more, no less.’
He couldn’t resist a response: ‘I would be grateful if you would detail exactly what motives you are imputing to me, ma’am. If I, and by extension my clients, are under suspicion from the outset, it would seem that any prospect of a fair hearing has already been cast into doubt.’
Jenny thought better of crossing swords at this early stage. White was desperate to cast her as hostile to his cause and to reinforce the narrative he hoped that prospective jurors would already have ingested before they even came to be sworn in.
‘You are not under suspicion, Mr White. Quite the reverse – I anticipate you assisting this inquiry to the best of your ability.’ She gave him what she hoped was a charming smile and moved on. ‘Now, there is one issue
I would like to clarify. Yesterday, the kit belonging to Privates Green and Lyons was examined. I have a few questions I would like to address to Major Norton.’ She sought out Norton’s face among the sixty or so arranged in front of her. ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming forward to the witness box, Major, it won’t take a moment.’
As Norton stood up from his seat among his men and shuffled along the row, Jenny was aware of anxious discussion taking place between Heaton and the triumvirate of government lawyers. She had deliberately not informed them of the issue she intended to raise with him. This time she wanted to avoid any danger of being outmanoeuvred. Heaton appeared to be telling his colleagues to sit tight, but they weren’t having it.
While Norton climbed to the witness box, Heaton politely rose to inquire what the matter was that Jenny intended to raise with the major.
‘It’s just a small matter regarding items of kit.’
‘May I inquire which ones?’ Heaton ventured.
‘It will become more than clear in a moment, Mr Heaton,’ Jenny said briskly, and invited Alison, acting as court usher, to administer the oath.
Heaton reluctantly sat down, but as he did so, Jenny noticed one of the lawyers behind him cast a reproving glance in the direction of Sergeant Price, who had been sitting alongside Alison at the clerk’s desk beneath Jenny’s. It came as no surprise, but she filed this detail away.
Norton pronounced the oath in clipped tones that excluded any possibility of emotion. His gaunt face and shaved head, now beginning to show the shadow of regrowth, added to the sense of him being not quite fully human. He stood with hands folded, straight-backed and statue-still.
‘Am I right in thinking that all men in the platoon were issued with notebooks as part of their standard-issue kit, Major?’ Jenny asked.
‘That is correct.’
‘There was no notebook in either Private Green’s kitbag or about his person – do you have any idea why that might be?’
‘No, I do not, ma’am.’
His answer came a little too quickly for Jenny’s liking, without even the slightest pause for thought.
‘Is it usual for soldiers to carry their notebooks while on patrol or on a mission such as the last one you led into Shalan-Gar?’
‘They may sometimes carry notebooks. There is no standing order preventing them from doing so.’
‘But surely you wouldn’t expect them to carry information that may be of assistance to the enemy?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Do you recall if Private Green’s pockets were searched after he was shot?’
‘I do not recall that happening, but it would not have been a priority, particularly in the circumstances.’
‘Were you aware of his notebook being removed from his kit for whatever reason, after his body was evacuated?’
‘His kit would have been packed by one of the men. I couldn’t tell you which one.’
‘So one of the platoon may have removed it?’
‘That is possible.’
‘Would you not, as officer in command, specifically have looked for a fallen man’s notebook? It might have contained intimate thoughts that loved ones might have appreciated reading.’
‘That has not been my practice, no.’
‘Your sergeant?’
‘You would have to ask him, ma’am.’
‘I don’t wish to labour the point now, it can wait until the full hearing. One last matter – Private Lyons’s notebook appears to have had several pages torn from it. Are you able to cast any light on that?’
‘No, ma’am. Again, his kit would have been packed up by one of the men.’
‘You didn’t at any time see Private Lyons’s notebook?’
‘No. I did not.’
Jenny realized that she was talking to a stone wall. Now wasn’t the time to try to prise him apart, that would have to wait until the main hearing. For the time being, she was quite content to let him think he could get the better of her.
‘Thank you, Major Norton. That’s all for now.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ The interjection came from Claydon White. ‘While Major Norton is on oath, might I be permitted to raise one brief matter with him?’
Jenny tried to think of a legitimate reason to object, but none came to mind.
‘Please be quick, Mr White. And remember this is not an occasion on which to take substantive evidence.’
‘I’ll be very brief.’
Jenny nodded her assent.
Claydon White turned to the witness with a benign smile. ‘Good morning, Major. I wonder, do you have any intention whatever of telling the truth at this inquest, or will you continue to instruct your men to obstruct the course of justice? People have gone to prison for less than what you did last week—’
‘Mr White . . .’ Jenny objected.
He ignored her and pressed on: ‘If members of your platoon weren’t drunk or intoxicated with drugs you’d have had nothing at all to hide would you?’
‘Mr White!’ Jenny’s voice resounded around the courtroom. She gathered herself. ‘Now is not the time.’
‘I beg to differ, ma’am,’ Claydon White said. ‘Now is precisely the time for me, on behalf of my clients, to mark our outrage at Major Norton’s brazen attempt to undermine this inquiry before it has even begun.’
Major Norton stared impassively ahead, as if he were entirely removed from the scene.
Jenny considered her response, careful not to allow herself to glance in Simon Moreton’s direction.
‘As I have already said, there will be ample opportunity to pursue these issues later this week.’
‘Do we have your word on that, ma’am?’
‘Mr White, let me make this clear from the outset: there is only one person who sets the agenda for this inquiry and that is me. I will not now, or at any stage, tolerate any attempt to barrack, bully, grandstand or impute false motives. Nor will I allow any relevant issue to go unexplored. Have I made myself understood?’
‘You have, ma’am, but my clients would still like to know what you intend to do about Major Norton’s attempt to pervert the course of justice. If it’s allowed to pass, what are we to conclude? Will other witnesses be allowed to withhold evidence?’
However Jenny replied, the damage had already been done. Claydon White had embarrassed her: made her look weak as well as biased. She had fully intended to take Norton to task in the main hearing, but in her attempt to catch him unawares over the notebooks, she had blundered straight into a bear trap. The last thing she had wanted was for this morning’s hearing to generate headlines, but she had been left with little choice.
‘Major Norton, perhaps, on further reflection, now would be an appropriate moment for you to explain why you and your platoon frustrated the process of gathering hair samples.’
‘I have nothing to say on the matter,’ Norton replied mechanically.
‘Are you refusing to answer my question?’
‘No, ma’am. I simply have no comment to make.’
‘Do you realize that wilfully failing to answer a proper question amounts to contempt in the face of the court?’
‘I take full responsibility for my actions.’
‘Did you order your men to make the collection of samples impossible?’
‘I did.’
‘Then I have no option but to fine you five hundred pounds for contempt and to pass details of what has occurred to the Crown Prosecution Service. They may wish to take the matter further.’
Major Norton showed no reaction. He was a more than willing martyr. Robert Heaton and the three men behind merely stared at their hands. Among the many journalists in attendance there was a murmur of excitement. The hearing Jenny had planned to be a non-event had delivered a story from which Claydon White would emerge as the hero. She would be portrayed as weak, out of her depth and as having been outmanoeuvred. As these thoughts rushed through her head in the space of a second, she also became aware that with the single exception
of Alison, she would have lost the respect of every single person in the courtroom.
As the reporters reached for their phones to fire out their first messages onto social media, the sharper ones among them picked up on another item of breaking news that would bring Jenny even more unwelcome attention.
TWENTY-FOUR
Anna Roberts had planned to be at the hearing, but instead found herself in the back of a taxi travelling up the now all too familiar motorway to Selly Oak. The call had woken her shortly after six a.m. The voice at the other end belonged to a male nurse who introduced himself as Jason. No surname. He told Anna that there had been an incident late the previous evening. Lee had become agitated and started raving. Jason had gone to him and found that he had pulled out the intravenous lines trickling fluid and drugs into his body. He was highly distressed and incoherent and appeared to be suffering delusions that were probably flashbacks to the incident in which he was injured.
A psychiatrist was summoned to examine him. He diagnosed a psychotic episode. Shortly afterwards, a second psychiatrist made the same finding. Together they decided that, for his own safety, Lee should be sectioned. Jason tried to reassure her that this would have no practical implications while Lee remained on the ward being treated for his wounds. All it would mean was that he would lose any say in his medical treatment.
‘Why did this happen?’ Anna had asked. ‘Is this normal?’
‘It’s either the trauma, or the trauma has triggered something underlying. It’s hard to say. We’ll have to see how he progresses.’
‘I need to see him.’
‘He’s under sedation, Mrs Roberts. You won’t get much from him at the moment.’